Charles is more awake today.Which is unfortunate.
I can hear him before I reach the door.Not moaning.Not slurring.Full sentences, sharp and loud, fired at the ceiling like someone might be listening.
Someone is.But not the someone he’s hoping for.
I open the door.He’s pulled himself upright against the headboard, wrists straining against the cuffs.He’s healing, which means the mouth is coming back online.Charles has always been at his most dangerous when he’s lucid.Not dangerous like a threat—dangerous like a lawyer.He doesn’t yell.He cross-examines.It’s one of the things I fell in love with.It’s also the reason I bought restraints.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Where are we?”
It comes out more like a demand than a question.He’s asked before but he was foggy then.Now his eyes are clear.Focused.The sedatives have worn off almost completely and the man looking at me is the real Charles—sharp, cold, already calculating.
“I told you.Upstate.”
He looks toward the window.The curtains are drawn but light pushes through the edges—warm, golden, wrong.
“It’s eighty degrees in here, Marin.This isn’t upstate.”
“The AC doesn’t work yet.It’s on the list.”
He doesn’t buy it.I can see him filing it away.One more piece of evidence for the case he’s building in his head.
“Upstate where?What town?What county?”
“We’re together.Does it matter?”
“It matters when I file a police report, Marin.”
I set the tray on the nightstand.Water.Toast.Ibuprofen.Two days ago he threw the toast at me.Today I’m betting on progress.
“You’re not filing a police report.”
“The hell I’m not.When I get out of here?—”
“When you get out of here, you’ll what?Call your lawyer?Call Vanessa?Call your mother?”I sit on the edge of the mattress.Leave a fair amount of distance.“And tell them what exactly?That your girlfriend drove you to the country for a fresh start and you didn’t like the accommodations?”
“That my girlfrienddrugged me and tied me to a bed.”
“You’re leaving out context.”
“There is no context for this!”
His voice cracks on the last word.Not from emotion—from strain.His throat is dry.He’s been yelling at the ceiling for God knows how long.I hand him the water.He stares at it.
“Drink,” I say.
“Untie me first.”
I nod at the glass.“Drink first.”
“I’m not negotiating with you.”
“You’re not in a position not to.”
He holds the stare for three seconds.Four.Then he takes the water.Drinks.Not gratefully—angrily.Like hydration is a concession he resents making.
“People are going to notice I’m gone,” he says, wiping his mouth on his shoulder.“I have a job, Marin.I have clients.I have a life.”
